I'll leave the door unlocked
by RavenStyx
Summary: Time had taken him and Lucy apart, people and circumstances had changed, but one thing remained the same, the way he felt about her. Rated M for mature themes, sexual content, language.
1. Chapter 1

It's snowing outside of the large alcove studio apartment. January, a bipolar month. Sometimes it's cold. Sometimes it's warm enough that the snow drops from the sky and melts on the ground just as fast. Sometimes, as now, the roof drips, drips, drips while the snow experiences a crisis of self, thinking it'd be happier as puddles. Bathed in the glow of streetlights, I lean against the dusty, finger-printed window and watch it fall several stories to the busy street below, where it'll become part of something larger.

Transports stuffed with bread, others with beer, some with vegetables, chug through the narrow street. Around them, cars deke in and out of the bustle. Horns honk, people talk and yell and laugh. Feet fall, walking the same old path but never stepping in the exact same place twice. Some people slow to shoot furtive glances down dark alleys. I don't know what they're looking for, but I think maybe they're craning their necks to catch sight of the art sprayed on the wall or they're pitying the bums slumming in the shadows or they're hoping to feel the proper amount of shame for an _instant_ while they take in the sheer, preposterous amount of _waste_ we leave behind.

Not much better, I open a package of cigarettes and drop the cellophane to the concrete floor. My apartment is repurposed, an old factory split and filled with bare concrete walls, retrofitted with shitty plumbing that gurgles and complains more often than not and a temperamental heater that chooses when and when not to work. I can't hear my neighbors, though. Bully for me.

The bathroom door opens and she steps out, ignited for only a blink in the harsh fluorescent light. Red, skimpy lingerie, red stiletto heels. It's not how she was dressed when she entered. She turns off the switch before I can really get a good look at her, throwing us into shadow again. Now there's just the green neon light from the strip club across the street. I look back out to the city and listen to her approach. She stops to grab a lighter off the stubby, scratched coffee table, seeing what I hold, then comes in just inches from my shoulder and flicks until the flame catches.

I lean into her, puffing a putrid cigarette's cherry into life. The smoke coils down deep in my lungs, filling them up, rotting them. Exhaling, it curls toward the ceiling, looking to stain it yellow.

She throws the lighter toward the table, uncaring where it lands, and asks, "How do I look?"

I glance quickly. Curling burnished gold on scarlet and ivory. Caramel eyes lined with thick, dark liner. Lips, cherry red. She's got a classic kind of beauty. I can't tell if it's accentuated with the makeup, or marred, that's how fucked up about her I've become.

She touches my face and cups my cheek, guiding me around so I'm forced to look at her more clearly. "Natsu?"

"Good, Lucy. You look good."

Fantastic. The time we spent apart has only exemplified her more exotic features, only made her _more_ into the siren I want.

She smiles the kind of smile that's a ghost of its old self. She isn't as happy as she once was. And neither am I. As I did the first night back in town, after I found her dancing across the road in that dingy, smoke-filled, alcohol-soaked dive, I want to ask how she ended up there. She didn't answer me then, so I stayed to watch her take off her bra so everyone could see what she had to offer, and her panties, so they could imagine having her. Then I took her back here and did what her other fans could not: lived out that fantasy. Intimacy wasn't a street to candour. She still wouldn't answer my questions. Likely, she won't now, either. So I don't bother.

Her hand drops away; my skin is cold in her wake. "I go on soon. Thanks for letting me use your place to get ready."

So she didn't have to walk a kilometer through slush I told her. Really, it was just to get her back into my apartment.

She starts to move away, going for the trench coat that will cover her body while she slips into the back of the club across the street.

"Come back."

She pauses. "What?"

I look away from the busy city. "Tonight. Come back. After your shift." I give her the same line as I did before. "You don't want to walk home in this shit."

"I could take a cab."

"You could save your money."

Her cherry lips press together, seriously considering my offer. I'm sure she knows why I want her to come back. It's why she didn't pretend to cover herself coming out of the washroom, it's why she stands too close to me and touches me more casually than she'd ever dared to before.

"I'm done at two."

I don't smile. "I'll leave the door unlocked."

* * *

A/N: I fought to put into words a ghost of an emotion. I thought maybe it was about the characterization—that I would find the perfect voice within the perfect dialog by twisting a character I associated with good feelings into something broken, but no. I think it lies within the setting, the grungy room, the drifting and dripping snow, the broken heater, the neon signs and shadows and dirty windows.


	2. Chapter 2

Lying on a sagging mattress and staring up at an old factory ceiling on the topmost floor of a four storey apartment, drinking and smoking as the hours tick by, wasn't exactly how I envisioned spending my night. I thought maybe I'd go down to Seven Sins to watch Lucy dance while pretending to watch the others. I had showered and dressed in an old pair of faded jeans and a black button up shirt (a little highbrow for a place like that, I know, but it was all I had) before I realized I couldn't do it.

I have a problem. I don't really like the idea of other people looking at her as she takes off her clothes. Even when, as she did the night before last, she looks over her shoulder, sees me in the crowd, and quirks her brow and her lips in a way that makes me rock hard. If she was surprised to see me leaning against one of the pillars, drink in hand, watching her, she didn't show it at all.

She wasn't even surprised when, after she'd gotten off stage and sauntered up to me, I kissed her, unable to help myself. Barely any words were spoken. Not, ' _where have you been',_ not, _'how are you doing',_ not even, ' _hello'_. Only, _'I have a place across the street.'_

The rest, as they say, is history.

I light another cigarette. I never used to smoke. I could never stand it. Things change. People change. It started because I needed something to do to keep my mind off things. It doesn't really help; now I'm just thinking about how I'm fucked up _and_ killing myself.

I almost stab it out; I stand from the screaming mattress and go to one of the bay windows instead. It's snowing now, not half-raining, January is still being a temperamental bitch.

Though she'd as good as said she'd return, from my window, through a flurry of snow, I watch the strip club close down and know when she just stands out front wavering on those fucking ridiculous heels, she's seriously debating on leaving. We crossed a line yesterday. We crossed a line before I left and when I came back and now we're toeing it again. She holds her trench coat tightly around her body as a damp January wind comes by, attempting to tear it open. She shivers; I can see it from here. She lurches to the right, moving with a yellow cab with its sign lit up. _She's going to leave_ , I think, and consider a scenario where I let her like she let me.

It would be good.

It would be bad.

 _And then what?_

 _Pack up and take off again._ There wasn't anything here anyway, not the job I'd left behind, not the woman, either, at least, not the one I thought I knew when I left the year before.

I hesitate, though, because I can't seem to move on. She chased my thoughts for twelve solid months, bringing me back here again whether she knows it or not.

She glances up from the road and looks at my apartment window and I know that she can't move on, either. Maybe she needs some encouragement, though. Turning away from her is hard. Everything we do is _so fucking hard._ I manage, going for the apartment door and taking the stairs. The elevator broke many years before; the other tenants told me it wasn't likely it'd ever get fixed. I didn't care a few days ago but I care now, afraid that indecision will turn into something more and Lucy will slip away before I can get down there.

I take the concrete stairs two at a time and hope I don't fall. I keep it together, somehow, together enough to burst out of the back exit into the garbage-smelling alley. Even winter can't suffocate that stink; diapers and waste and rotting vegetables. Things beneath the snow try to trip me. I don't wonder what they are, chances are, my imagination isn't up to the job.

Suicidal snow has made an ice rink out of porous concrete. I slide and catch myself on a wall with a crude dick's likeness spray painted into its bricks. The paint is still damp. I don't slow to wipe my hand off, the black paint can stay just where it is for now. I brush past a smoking teenager—the artist, likely—and swing around the front of the building.

I'm afraid to look across the road to see if Lucy has gone but I'm glad I do. She's standing there, hand half lifted as a taxi approaches. She sees me just before she can wave and lets her limb drop to her side. Her shoulders relax and her bottom lip trembles. I cross the road like an idiot, without looking, and almost get smoked by a Bentley. I size up the driver and shove him in a neat box: rich man that works so much, his wife doesn't know who he is anymore. They hate each other. He spends his time in Seven Sins, taking what he can get.

If it's true, I don't envy him. What would it be like to lie next to someone you can remember loving, that you feel like you _should_ love, but you just can't hold that feeling any longer?

The Bentley's horn blares, loud and long, fading as the car gets further away.

"Natsu," Lucy says when my foot lands on the curb. "You almost got hit."

I want to say, _'why are you trying to get a cab when you said you'd come back?'_ "I have takeout menus upstairs," comes out. I lace our fingers together and Lucy lets me lead her away. As we walk, I don't ask if her shift was good, I don't ask if someone paid for a lap dance, I don't ask what strangers screamed at her as she took off her bra and flashed everyone her titties. If I knew… well, I don't know what I'd do. It's just something I don't want to think about.

She comes back across the road and enters my apartment with little fuss. Her grip loosens a fraction on her trench coat without the wind constantly trying to steal it away. I catch sight of the redder than sin garment beneath. It's damp with sweat; in more clear light, I study her appearance. Her curls have lost some of their bounce, her makeup is a little used looking. I stare going up the stairs, again wondering if she's more beautiful for it or if I've just been away from her for so long, I think she looks especially good.

Lucy catches me looking. She swipes her lipstick, self-conscious, and then her eyes. The difference is marginal. I don't tell her so.

My door is still open fractionally. Inside it smells like smoke and alcohol and the cologne I'd sprayed hours ago. Lucy watches me close the door and lock it. Uncertainty befalls her; it's a fleeting emotion. One breath, two, and she's better again. I want to ask if she's alright; I only want one answer, though, so I keep it to myself.

Lucy lets out a huge breath then grabs the tie of her coat and starts undoing it. I watch her, helpless to do much else, and enjoy the expanse of creamy skin exposing before me. It has only been hours; I'm still greedy to see her. Her bra is as red as I remember, even in the dull light of the bedside lamp, her skin ivory and pricked with goose bumps. Her nipples press hard into the thin fabric of her bra; it must be hard going from a sweltering nightclub into the January cold and then into a luke-warm room.

"Are you cold?" I ask.

"Are you offering to keep me warm?" Lucy has become more comfortable quipping with sexual innuendos, flirting obnoxiously.

"Coffee?"

A bit of her zeal falls away. A tiny crack appears in her hardened exterior; I see she's like fine china, breaking apart with tiny taps of a hammer so small, she didn't have the chance to be wary of its approach.

I continue. "Or tea, if you like. For something stronger, I have whisky."

Lucy drops her coat where she stands; it puddles on the floor. It's impossible to keep my mouth from going dry or my eyes from ravenously taking her in. Sure she's sized me up correctly once more, she comes in and wraps her arms around my neck. She smells faintly like someone else's cologne, lipstick and just a little bit like sweat. Beneath that is a scent that's unique to her. With her high heels on, she's almost equal with my mouth.

Kissing her is not like it used to be. Thrills of pleasure would run down my spine, my skin would heat, and my head would get fuzzy. Now my body burns and my lungs are small and she's all I can think of. I know, somewhere deep inside, that sex doesn't bring us closer. I know she's using it to keep us apart. Part of me likes it. That's the part that keeps going, that allows her to kiss me until she feels in control again, until she's tugging at the buttons of my stupid collared shirt, getting them undone faster than she'd ever been able to before, and then the button on my jeans. She's colder than Hell, her hands make me jump and twitch.

I kick off my boots and step out of my pants then stoop and grab lingeried Lucy in her high heels up by the hips. She's lighter than she used to be, or maybe I don't remember correctly. Her legs wrap around my waist. I take her to the sad mattress as she is, interested in getting her warm, then getting her naked. She's interested in getting naked and using it as a means to get warm.

She wins; I don't even remember when the tides of the fight changed, if it could ever be called that. On top of her, I'm lost in the feel of her lips, in her skin, in her breasts pushing against my chest and her body, blocked by a thin layer of red panties, rubbing against my hard cock.

She gasps and pushes at me. I move back to my knees. She pushes me back more. "Up."

I stand.

Lucy sits up and reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra. Her breasts spill out, generous and kissed by roses, a gentle pink that blends to ivory, dusted with freckles. She grabs and pushes them together because she thinks I'll like it. She's not wrong. Between my legs is so hard it hurts. I wish taking off my shorts was done with hands that didn't shake with eagerness. I wish I was as calm and collected and as unaffected as Lucy is.

Then, because I'm looking, I see a small hint of eagerness come over her, the kind that's not put on, or wrought solely out of animalistic want. It allows me to be more confident. My actions slow, shorts going the way of my pants. Lucy takes her eyes away from my body to glance at me. She looks away again and wets her lips. Inspired, I tangle my fingers in her hair. She leans forward, thinking that's what I want, and I _do_ , but not yet. I hold her firmly with one hand and grab myself with the other. Even my hands are cold. It feels good on my suddenly too-hot body. I stroke slowly and watch Lucy smile.

"That's nice." Her voice is the huskiest I've ever heard it. My body pulses and my head empties some more. I want to tell her I've missed her. She's as skittish as a rabbit now so I keep my goddamn mouth closed and pump faster.

Lucy stretches toward me; I'm pulling her hair now. She doesn't seem to care. Her tongue flicks out and abuts the head of my cock. I imagine coming right there. I could, if I wanted. I don't, not just yet. My strokes slow.

"Keep going," Lucy protests.

"I'll come," I reply.

"No you won't," she assures me. She doesn't know how close I am, though. I keep going. Lucy shifts. I watch her hand go between her legs. She massages herself through her panties, short fast circles like she likes. My cock gets harder again, and again when she brings her free hand up to cup my testicles. Her mouth opens, her tongue comes out. I take the invitation, going deep, deep to the back of her throat and staying there. She makes a muffled sound. I wonder if it's a protest. It is, in a way, not because she can't breathe, but because she's coming. Her fingers squeeze, bringing me to the brink of pain, her tongue slides over my cock, tainting the sensation with pleasure so badly, I have no fucking idea what to feel.

Like I want to come.

I pull her hair hard and forcefully take her away. She's panting and red cheeked; I'm sure I look much the same. She gets on her knees and pulls me down for a kiss so hot, I think I'm on fire.

"You did good," she whispers. She's gone again and turning around, backside facing me. "Now do better."

The last time we did this, she was on top. I want to see her front so I can watch her cheeks pink. On the other hand, from behind offers its own array of pleasurable views. I don't have to crouch, she's at the perfect height. I don't have to fight to get inside, either, she's so wet, it's easy. Her body welcomes me; mine remembers hers. I hold her hips and watch her come back to meet me and think how glad I am that I caught her before she could flag down that cab.

* * *

"It was a modeling job first," Lucy said with her cheek resting on my chest. Her hot breath skates over my skin, nice and soft.

"Hm?"

She tilts her face so she's looking at me instead of my feet and the city beyond the room. "Seven Sins. It was just a modeling job at first. They wanted girls to come in and advertise for the strip club. They were paying well so I said yeah."

Modeling is a far cry from stripping I both think and say.

Lucy's laugh is depreciative like it never was before. "The industry is actually kind of shitty."

I touch her golden curls, unable to help myself. I worry about burning her with the cigarette pinched between my fingers. She doesn't flinch. Our trust, though shaken, has never truly been broken. "Then why do it?"

Her sigh is as gentle as a spring's breeze. Her breath smells like the alcohol she downed as soon as we finished. Her answer is surprising. "I like the way they look at me."

"The way they look at you?"

"Yes."

I imagine what she means but I want to hear her say it. Who knows why? Some strange perverse need I can't quite shake. "How?"

She wriggles out of my hold and sits up, hair sliding over her shoulder and across my chest. Leaning over me, she slides her hand down the centerline of my chest, tracing her way over my skin to my hips. Feeling her body pressing into mine, her hand wandering, I find myself wanting to fall back into that mindless want again. My cock isn't rock hard but it's getting there.

"Like that," Lucy says. "Not like they love me, but they love what I can offer."

Thoughtlessly, I ask, "Don't you want someone to love you?"

Her throat works; she's swallowing, she's breathing shortly, she's blinking her eyes too quickly. I don't understand what I've said to bring her to the edge of tears, but there she teeters. A sharp shove will push her either way.

When she can, she says, "Love complicates things."

I know it. "Sometimes, when you don't think you have much, complication is something to look forward to."

She gives me her first genuine smile.

* * *

 **A/N:** I thought this was going to be a really fast one-shot, but it seems I can't get it out of my head. So here you go, it's a two-shot. This is not really a story; it was just a weird image that I couldn't get away from, a heavy feeling that's been tagging along. There will be no more continuation after this. Thank you for reading.


End file.
